As One Fey
by EvilFuzzy9
Summary: It is cold. The cold bites into my very soul. The blood in my veins feels as ice. This is all I know. The cold is everything. It envelops everything, bites so deeply into flesh and blood and sinew and bone. I cannot endure it. This cold pains me. It weakens me. It stifles me. I am weak now, a thing to be pitied. What once I was, now is no more. But still the Fire remains.
1. Fire Spirit

**As One Fey**

An _Avatar: the Last Airbender_ plotbunny

By

EvilFuzzy9

* * *

_It is cold._

This is all I know. The cold is everything. It envelops everything, bites so deeply into flesh and blood and sinew and bone.

I cannot endure it. This cold pains me. It weakens me. It stifles me.

My life, my _chi_, as it is called in their tongue, is as the essence of fire. It is hot and bright, a mighty force for both destruction and creation. Fire is science, civilization, the heart of a forge, the hammering and shaping of things fair and useful alike. It softens metals, makes them pliable, malleable. Fire is the driving force of civilization, the pulsing heart from which all progress springs.

It is also that which has taken everything from me. Because of fire, I am laid low, reduced to cowering and scavenging at the furthest, remotest fringes of society like some manner of base _animal_.

Fire has shamed me, made me so weak and vulnerable. It has taken my home, and all which I loved.

My body was consumed by the flames of my very soul. Yet it is my body no longer. Not even ash, nothing remains.

Yet I am not formless, not without flesh and blood. But my body, if I can truly call this pitiful hovel as such, is meager, so small and soft and wretched.

I am weak now, a thing to be pitied. My life now is measured in the revolutions of the Sun, in the coming and going of the seasons.

It feels so brief, now. They tell me I am at the age of manhood, yet how can I be? So short a time as has passed, surely, cannot possibly be sufficient to shape one into the fullness of their natural might and cunning!

It frightens me, how short time now seems to be. Before, I could have marked entire years passing with the same indifference the elders here give to a week or two. Yet the years as these ones reckon them are so frightfully fleeting, pass so quickly, so soon.

Before my very eyes, I see young women grow gray and stooped, see newborns grow so swiftly into children.

So brief, so fleeting, life now seems to me, and so weakly does my Inner Flame burn in the wastes of this icy pit.

The cold bites into my very soul. The blood in my veins feels as ice.

This feels wrong, I should not be so cold, should not be so weak, so fleeting, so feeble of mind. Yet I cannot grow warm, my strength avails nothing, I grow older with each short "year", and my cunning can contrive naught but that which could be comprehended by the Other.

The Other chains me to this wretched existence. The Other inhabits my body, rules my limbs as often as not. It chills me, enfeebles me, dulls me.

It is an invader, I cannot help but think, a wrong, _foreign_ presence. Yet try as I might, no effort of will or contortion of mind can extricate my essence from that of the Other, who saps my strength and inhabits my body.

... Or perhaps it is I who inhabits the body of the Other. Perhaps _I_ am the alien presence, the intruder, the outsider, the _parasite_.

This thought unnerves me too greatly to contemplate. Could I truly be so entangled with the Other, that I can not even discern my reality from its?

For mine is a reality of fire and steel and minerals of the earth, of graving and smithing and shaping and making, where the Other's is of ice and snow and chilling waters, of hunting and fishing and trapping and subsisting.

Yes, surely, two essences so clearly opposed cannot possibly belong in the same body, the same soul. I am Fire where the Other is Water. I am iron and steel where the Other is ice and horn.

Yet I cannot extricate myself from the Other. Try as I might, my existence seems almost the same as the Other, my life force the same, my essence, my memories.

I no longer know what is real, and what is false. What is truth, and what is imagined? Dreams have I still of jewels and metals and fires and forges, of crafting and smithing and carving and shaping, of lands of lush green, trees as of silver and gold, of rolling hills and dense forests, and cities of stone and wood and silver and pearl, high and radiant and vast and beautiful.

What is real?

I look through eyes that feel wrong, eyes which feel like they should not be mine, yet eyes also which are the only ones I have ever had, eyes natural and right and belonging to no other.

I look through these eyes, and I see nothing but white, and blue, and gray, and black. Nothing but ice and snow and sea. Nothing but the endless wastes of this frozen tundra.

I shudder a little, shivering in the cold, trying to call the fire I _know_ is there, just below the surface, just barely out of reach. I breathe in the air – so cold I nearly cough, nearly retch and wheeze as it freezes my throat and my lungs with a burning frost itch – and _pull _on the warmth I know to be there, breathing out my breath, exhaling a sliver of my soul.

Weakly, faintly, a dull red flame flickers to life in my hands, dancing and wavering in the air between mitten-clad palms. For a moment it grows, becoming stronger and warmer, and I begin to feel _aright_.

But then the Other reemerges, reasserts itself, and the flame dies away.

The Other fears the flame, abhors it. Fire took everything from it, fire has destroyed its home, laid us all low.

In that way, at least, the Other is like myself.

Or is it that I am like the Other?

Against my will, my feet turn around, turn our body so that the Other is facing back towards the village, if village you can call it. A scant smattering of low, snow huts, the dwelling-place of a few small families.

A "_tribe_" they call this, but so small it is, and so few there are.

A girl comes out, young yet still older than the other children here, and pretty I suppose you could call her, also, in the strange, homely manner of these people. She is clad heavily in furs, as are myself and the Other.

The cold is everywhere, here.

"Sokka!" the girl calls me, and for a moment I wonder whether that is truly my name, or the name of the Other which shares with me this body. "What are you doing?!" she cries, annoyed, irritated, impatient. "You said you would help me and Gran-Gran clean that tiger seal, but all you're doing is looking out at the sea!"

Ah, the Other must have made a promise to her. I was unaware of this.

The Other speaks through my lips, as ever it does, but this is just as well.

The language spoken by these people is strange to me, its sounds alien and unlovely, its words clumsy and cumbersome. In this language, which I understand as clearly as my native tongue, I can find none of the beauty of the language of my home, the language I keep close to my heart, and dear, as one of the few things I _know_ to be _mine_, and no other's.

"Sorry, I guess I got distracted," says the Other, in the voice of a boy who has not yet come into the fullness of manhood.

"Well, _don't!_" snapped the girl in response, Katara they call her, my sister, or is she the Other's? "Don't forget, we still have to go out fishing today, too! _You're_ the one who keeps fretting about our stores running low, after all."

"_Better safe than sorry!_" called back the Other, more out of reflex than any sort of spite or real desire to illuminate.

The Other moves my feet, our feet, its feet, and brings us back towards the village, towards the only manner of civilization for leagues beyond counting.

Not for the first time, as the Other rules this body, for now, my own thoughts turn inward, turn to contemplation of old, half-forgotten memories from another life. As I do so, our spirit burns just the smallest bit brighter.

Though this body be of snow and ice and Water, my soul, our soul, is of hot and bright, all-consuming_ fire._

A soul of flame.

Fire-Spirit.

_Fëanáro._

That was my name, in another life.

Yet that life has passed. That body is gone. That reality is now little more than a dream. This tongue of mine can scarcely even form the syllables, this voice cannot even sing the words as they ought to be sung.

All is gone of the life I once knew. All is gone, all is lost, save one thing alone.

The Fire still remains.

Sokka, may I now be, the Other may have always been, but once Fëanáro, _Curufinwë_, was I.

And _Fëanor_ I will _always_ be.

For the Fire still remains.

* * *

A/N: A neat/silly little idea I had, an extension-slash-sideways-evolution of the notion I had for a firebender Sokka, which I actually outlined in a challenge prompt at the end of one of the chapters of _Unexpected Aftermath_. Also, of a silly-ass idea I had of Sokka being the reincarnation of someone like Feanor (EVEN THOUGHT TECHNICALLY ELVES HAVE AN ESTABLISHED SYSTEM THAT DOESN'T REALLY WORK LIKE THAT BUT WHATEVER)

Now, I do not list this as a crossover because [-crossovers get fewer hits-] it is only SORTA KINDA crossover-_ish_. Also, for now this is just a standalone thing, with no plans for continuing.

For _now._

But who can say when the mood might strike me again? :D

**EDIT:** 9-7-13, fixed a few minor typos

**TTFN and R&R!**

– — ❤


	2. Values Education

**As One Fey**

An _Avatar: the Last Airbender_ plotbunny

By

EvilFuzzy9

* * *

Have you ever felt like there was someone watching you?

I get that feeling a _lot_ these days.

Oh, yeah. First things first.

I'm Sokka.

Sokka of the Southern Water Tribe.

And also I guess I'm apparently a firebender. Or something.

I don't know, I try not to think too hard about it. Katara might call me a pessimist or a cynic or whatever, but that doesn't mean I_ like_ being miserable. And being a firebender in the Southern Water Tribe?

Yeah, _not _exactly something to throw a party over.

Not that we really throw many parties, down here. Not these days. Not since Mom died. Not since the men left.

But, _again_, I try not to think about that. If I think about it too much, I'll start to worry. And I already have more than enough things to worry about, as it is.

Like the fact that sometimes my body seems to have a mind of its own.

And I don't just mean that in the sense of "_I got a stiffie while hugging my sister_," either. No, I mean that sometimes, while I'm just sitting and thinking about stuff, my body will suddenly get up on its own and do whatever.

Sometimes, I don't even notice it's happening until I feel the wind on my face, and suddenly I realize that I'm outside, staring at the sea.

Yeah.

It's kinda freaky, yet that's _not even the worst part_. Sometimes I'll just start shivering for no reason, like I'm cold, except I don't_ feel_ cold.

...well, relatively speaking, at any rate. I mean, even as someone who's spent all fifteen years of his life living in the South Pole, I know that it can never really be called _warm_. It's always cold here. But I'm _used to the cold_. I don't _shiver_.

Except for when I do. _Then_ I shiver _all the time_.

And, actually, it usually happens around sorta the same time as when I lose control of my body – that is, when my body starts to move on its own. Usually, it seems to start a little bit before the… I dunno, _trances_ I guess you could almost call them? That's maybe not the best way to put it, but I don't really have a good word for them.

But, anyways, usually the shivering seems to start a little bit before these "_trances_", and will last for a while even after they end. Usually it happens when I'm distracted, or busy thinking about something, so admittedly I don't always notice it right away.

But it isn't fun.

Katara teases me for it, sometimes, when she notices it herself. And that kinda_ really_ stings my pride. Because, I mean, I'm the_ boy_. I'm supposed to be the strong one, the tough one, but I can't even handle a little _cold?_

I hate looking so weak, like that. I mean, Katara already hardly ever takes me seriously, as it is. But seeing me looking so lame and wimpy? Oh, she has a _field day_, whenever she spots me getting the shivers. And I can't even tell her to_ shut up_ and _I can't help it_, because I usually don't even have control of my body when that happens.

It's a little scary, when I think about it. Sometimes, my body just… _refuses_ to do what I tell it. Sometimes it just goes off on its own, and does whatever.

And that's usually when the firebending happens, too.

Ah.

Now, _that_, I should probably explain.

You see, I'm Water Tribe, through and through. I'm about as Fire Nation as a penguin (which is to say, _not at all_). So I shouldn't _be_ a firebender. If I were any kind of bender, I should be a _water_bender. You know, like my sister, Katara.

Because, _again_, I am _Water_ Tribe_._ Not Fire Nation.

_Water Tribe._

That's a very important distinction to make, since we've been at war with those no-good ash-makers for the last hundred years.

..._kinda_.

It's complicated.

Well, okay, maybe not _really_. I mean, the Fire Nation has spent the last hundred years trying to take over the world. And they've been doing an unfortunately good job of it, too.

For one thing, our village, here in the South Pole?

Yeah, before the war, we were an entire _nation. _But now we're hardly even big enough to justify still calling ourselves a tribe.

That's just how badly the Fire Nation has messed with us.

And I hate them.

I do.

They killed our mom. I mean, I know Katara is usually the one to get mopey about it, but that doesn't mean I wasn't affected by it. Of course not.

She was our _mother_. I was, like, _five_ when she died, when we went into the family igloo, only to find...

...no. I can't say it. I can't even _think_ about it. The way Mom looked, when we found her...

Have you ever seen the body of someone who was burned to death? Have you ever walked into a room, only to be hit with the stench of charred flesh, of burnt meat and hair?

It's horrible. It's horrible.

It's _horrible_.

I can't even describe it. And not because I don't know the words to describe it, either. I mean, I'm not one to brag, but I like to think of myself as having a certain way with words. I like to say that I am a _pretty good_ storyteller.

So, no, it isn't because I don't have the vocabulary, or can't think of the right words.

No, that isn't it at all.

It's just...

I can't. I can't.

I can't talk about Mom like that. I can't describe the way her skin looked, so black and cracked and shrunken and burnt, or how her eyes sockets were empty, like her eyes had been burned right out of them.

I can't describe how I could see her bones, her and there, how her clothes were half burned, half melted into her skin.

It's horrible. Awful. Indescribably dreadful and_ wrong_.

It messed Katara up, seeing that. After seeing our mom like that, she became obsessed with waterbending, with trying to get stronger and better. But she could only do so much.

So she retreated from the world, retreated into old tales and stories, legends of spirits and the Avatar and times before the War.

I can't even imagine a world with four nations living in harmony.

Katara was _affected_ by our mom's death. Even now, ten years later, she still talks about it, sometimes, still crawls up to me in the middle of the night, in our igloo, and asks me to hold her, to keep the nightmares away.

Since our mom died, she's done so much to keep things together that she can hardly keep _herself_ together. That's what I'm for. I'm there to chase away the bad dreams, make sure nobody can ever hurt our tribe again, make sure nobody in the South Pole ever again has to suffer a death like our mother's.

Death by burning.

I am a firebender. I am a firebender, and I can't firebend. Not consciously.

When I try, when I try to make those flames, try to firebend, I just can't. I just _can't_. When I try to firebend, I see my mom, see how _horrible_ she looked in death, and the fire dies before I can even get it out.

I haven't tried to firebend in _years_.

Sometimes, I wonder if I wasn't affected even worse by our mom's death than Katara was. I don't remember the shivering happening before then, I don't remember my body moving by itself before Mom died. It didn't start until after she died. And it's only gotten worse as time passes.

I don't know. Maybe I'm crazy.

Maybe I've snapped, maybe I snapped_ years ago_, and I just never even realized it.

That scares me, because, now?

_I'm the only one providing for the tribe_.

I mean, sure, Gran-Gran and the women cast nets for fish, off the shore, but I have to do all of the hunting, have to train to protect the tribe should the Fire Nation ever come again. I'm basically our tribe's lifeline. I have to do the work of a bunch of men all by myself, and it's just _so hard_.

And it scares me, to think that I might be crazy, might be losing it, might have already lost it back when I was just a kid.

Because I am basically providing for the entire tribe. So if I go, _everyone_ goes.

That's a scary thought.

So I try not to think about it.

But.

Sometimes.

It just gets through.

Sometimes it gets through, and I can't help but_ worry_.

I know Katara might call me a pessimist, or a worrywart, but I can't help it. She doesn't how bad things are, not really. And she doesn't realize how bad they will get, if I lose it and decide to just wander out onto the ice in just my loincloth, or dive starkers into the water.

I don't want everyone to starve just because I can't even keep my grip on reality.

I can't trust myself to stay sane.

I don't trust myself.

Because no firebender can be trusted.

So, yeah.

My name is Sokka, and I am a Water Tribe firebender.

Also, probably stark raving mad.

* * *

A/N: Well, since this got such an overwhelmingly _positive_ response from all two and a half reviewers of this fic, and also because I am, like Sokka, quite possibly insane, here is another chapter of _As One Fey_. And who knows? Maybe this will become a _thing_, sorta like in the way UA is a _thing_.

Or maybe it will just exist as a sporadically updated, self-contained thingy.

Who can say?

I sure can't. XD

**Chapter added:** 9-5-13

**TTFN and R&R!**

– — ❤


	3. Memories Half Forgotten, Then Remembered

**As One Fey**

An _Avatar: the Last Airbender_ plotbunny

By

EvilFuzzy9

* * *

At times, now and again, I cannot help but ponder. My mind begins to wander, trapped inside my own body – or, _no_, rather this body which I inhabit –and I cannot help but think, but wonder.

How great, _truly_, is the divide between myself and the Other? How vast, or narrow, is the gulf of consciousness which separates us?

For the Other is, loth though I am to admit it, clearly not so different from myself as my pride should demand me to say. Nay, rather, it should seem that the Other is of a kindred nature, on a fundamental level. Though I be of Fire where the Other is Water, myself of iron and steel where the Other is ice and horn, these differences are not so great as I may wish to believe them.

The Other and I may be more alike, more akin to one another, than I could ever, with pride, confess.

It may be.

Yet it also may not.

At times, the borders betwixt us seem to blend and vanish, blurring away into nothing, until we are as of the same mind, the same soul, the same essence. But at other times, they seem as walls incomparably tall and broad, vast and thick beyond mortal measure, insurmountable, a division as stark as the Walls of the World against the black Outer Seas, empty and void of all but the stars.

It is so strange. I cannot put it into words, though certainly I may try.

Fëanor.

This was my name, once upon a time, in another life, so distant to my mind now that it should seem almost a dream. The memories are fleeting, so difficult to grasp, to cling to. It is like attempting to hold fine, alabaster grains of sand in my fist – the more tightly I clutch, the more they slip through my fingers.

At times, I remember scarce more than my name, if even that much. Yet, at others...

Ah! at others, at others! Ai! Such splendor, can my mind recall, such wondrous things doth mine wit conceive! Ai! the One and the Powers, and the Enemy, nameless alone! Ai! Star-kindler and Wind-lord and World-smith and Tree-mother, all, and more!

And the city, ah! the city! The city before the hill, O Valimar, the city! The hill before the city, O Ezellohar, the hill!

Ai! Ai! and the Trees upon the hill! Ah! the Trees! Silver and Gold, first-lights seen to Quendi, to Eldar, save only the stars ! Ah! the dances of the Vanyar, before those Trees, before Telperion and Laurelin! And the songs of my mother's kin, the Teleri by the shores of the Sea! Songs of water, songs of the Ocean-lord, Ulmo!

Ah! such visions of beauty, do mine eyes recall, such wonders and fantasies of light and flame! O Valinor, Undying Lands, land of the Deathless! O forges of my people, of the mighty, wise Noldor! Ah! Fire-spirit, _Fëanáro_, once I was called, in my heart am still called! O crafts of my hands, works beyond peer, gems surpassing stars, metals with the shine of living, leaping spark and flame!

Ai! Ai! the wonders of the Past! O _Silmarils_, above all else, O proudest of all works, loveliest and highest and purest of all things material! Ah! the Silmarils, to which Sun and Moon and stars in heaven pale in comparison! Such light you hold, fairest gems three, flawless and clearest and brightest of all gems! Most lovely of all things, the Silmarils, ah! the Silmarils!

When to them my thought turns, most hot my soul burns. Ah! distant is the memory, now, but still so dear do I hold it!

Silmarils, ah! Silmarils! To what end did you come, O fair and lovely Silmarils?

Ah, such sadness and grief I feel in my heart, when I consider them, and such anger also, hot and rash and violent beyond measure. Memory fades, but their light I still see, the light of Telperion and Laurelin, first-lights, tree-lights, captured in crystal, pure and clear and smooth and round. Perfect and sublime, ah! even as but a memory distant, half-forgotten, their beauty is so great that even a thousand songs, a thousand verses each, could not suffice to capture but the smallest, most meager shadow of their loveliness!

Ah! Silmarils, my Silmarils! Proudest works of proud, great Fëanor! Where have you gone, O Silmarils, my Silmarils? My heart mourns your loss, the loss of yours light, and all the more as I remember _not_ how lost you came to be.

Ah! Silmarils, O Silmarils fairest of all things.

I mourn for your loss.

The loss of your light.

Faint now, the memory becomes – recollection fades and wanes. Once more the memories, the names, the images all, begin again to slip through my grasp.

So brief, so fleeting, so phantasmal, these dreams. Ah! for dreams they be, I am sure. Dreams of a life past, perhaps, of a life before the Other, with whom this body I now share.

These visions are faint, yet they are all I have. Them and the Fire which within our soul burns.

Our soul.

Yes.

I am one with the Other... or is the Other one with me?

...But at the least, I am sure, that this body we share.

And this life force, also.

This _chi_.

Water, the Other is, but Fire also.

A contradiction, perhaps, but so then am I.

For I am the Other. Sokka, I am. Son of Hakoda, who is Chief of the Southern Water Tribe.

Or is it Fëanor, Fëanáro, Curufinwë son of Finwë, who is High King of the Noldor, first and for ever?

Ah! is it I, who moves these limbs, who lays now upon the ice, sheltering from ice and water and snow and wind, or is it the Other? Are these mine eyes, which gaze upon that pillar of light, that celestial brilliance which joins heaven and earth like the finger of Eru All-father?

Is this my body, my life, my memories? Or are they those of the Other?

Who is the Other?

Who am I?

...

...

...Who is _that?_

"Stop!" I cry (or is it the Other?), brandishing my spear (our spear? its spear?) at the boy who emerges, eyes aglow with a cold light. Yet I see also an old man, and a woman in green, face painted, hair tied up, and another man also, younger than the first, wearing the pelt of some great beast, and countless other spirit-forms also do I perceive.

What is this child, if child in truth be he? Deep is my ken, sharp my eyes, and more do I see of the thoughts of others than perhaps any other being ever born into flesh, yet beyond my reck is the thought of this boy, head shaven, skin marked, _befouled_, with pigments of blue, shaped as an arrow, or else mayhaps in pattern of the point of a spear. Closed to me, is this mind, closed like none other save that of such things as to which even I am but mortal.

Unbidden I recall, half so, at least, some image of a great shape, vast and outwardly fair, yet to mine eyes unmistakably vile underneath, and almost I fear I should shake with rage, unthinking, unknowable.

But then the light fades, and a mere boy he is once more, and he swoons to the ice and the snow. So weak he seems now, so small and _mortal_. A boy in truth, perhaps, no more than a child of the strange second-comers.

Yet still I must wonder. Still I must ponder.

_How does he not shiver, in this thrice-accursed cold?!_

* * *

A/N: First person Feanor is real fun to write. Or is it Sokka, just _thinking _he's Feanor? :P

Well, whatever the case, I hope that this chapter is sufficiently mindscrewy, and whatever else it is you guys see in this thing, for y'all. It's a bit shorter than the last two, but once I thought of that last line, I knew I _had_ to end the chapter on it. I _had_ to.

Plus, this means we get to meet Aang from _Sokka's_ perspective, next chapter! Assuming I keep up this pattern! And also assuming it isn't actually Feanor thinking he's Oskka – I mean Sokka, but oh god that typo made me think _Osaka_, and then _Osokka_ and I'm like WTF Fuzzy stop shipping between series that have almost nothing in common, what the hell.

I probably should not be typing, when I am so tired.

Eh.

Whatever.

**Chapter added:** 9-7-13

**TTFN and R&R!**

– — ❤


	4. Nature Ain't Nice

**As One Fey**

An _Avatar: the Last Airbender_ plotbunny

By

EvilFuzzy9

* * *

Why can't things just ever make _sense?_

Seriously, this is just ridiculous. I'm honestly starting to think that _Katara_ is the crazy one.

I mean.

Some crazy glowing kid appears out of some kind of unnatural freak iceberg – and don't even _try_ to tell me that thing could have been natural – because I dang well _know_ what icebergs should look like), and her first instinct is to run up and _hug him_ the second the kid falls down.

_Seriously._

Either Katara has no common sense at all, or I've gone even loonier and am imagining this whole thing. And I'm honestly not even sure which answer I'd prefer.

So naturally I jab the freakish, not-currently-glowy kid in the head with the butt of my spear.

Because I am just the _epitome_ of self-preservation.

Fortunately, this possible Fire Nation spy doesn't decide to try and roast me. _Unfortunately_, however, Katara snaps at me to

"_Stop it!_"

and shoves my polar bear dog femur club into my hands, before returning her attention to this frankly _highly suspicious_ individual. And I am highly aware of just how _close_ my sister's face is to that of this freaky foreign kid, but I don't interject because I can see That Look in her eyes.

Katara just _loves_ taking wayward animals in. She's too dang _caring_ and _nurturing_, and anytime she sees something in need of mothering her girl instincts just kick right in and she takes the critter back home without a second thought. Like that lame wolf pup she found out on the ice, back when she was nine. When she saw that fuzzy little animal lying there in the snow, whining and whimpering so sad and pitiful and – yes, even I can admit, _cute_ – she immediately latched onto the thing and brought it home.

I wasn't happy about that. Not when I learned that she _didn't_ bring it in to kill and cook (though I'll admit that there wouldn't have been much eating from it, anyways, with how scrawny and half-starved the pup was). No, she didn't let me kill it for her or Gran-Gran or one of the other women to cook. She wanted to _nurture _it. Katara talked about feeding the wolf pup and caring for it, and even taming it and raising it to help me with hunting. Because Katara is, and was, an idealist, an _optimist._

Not me, though. I was, and am to this day, a _realist_. I knew that there was a reason the thing had been left on the ice to die. It was lame, crippled. It would probably _never_ get better. And even if it _had_, by some miracle, managed to recover from being crippled, I knew that it simply wouldn't have been possible to tame it. Not the way Katara was going about it. And even if she _did_ tame it, with the way she coddled the thing, it would grow up soft, weak. You don't train an animal to kill by babying it.

But that was a moot point, though, because – as I am sure you have noticed by now – I am talking about this pup in the_ past tense_.

There's a good reason for that. And a good reason why I _knew_ Katara's attempts would be a failure.

Wild animals are called "wild" for a reason. They aren't nice. They aren't tame. They aren't _cuddly_. Those stories Gran-Gran tells us and reads us might _talk_ about nature as a balance, as everything working together in harmony, but I know this is just a load of seal dung.

Nature isn't a nice place. I know, because I _live_ in nature. I mean, we _all_ do, but Katara's never had to go out into the tundra for days at a time, tracking game and hoping she finds something that will make a good meal for the tribe, and NOT make a good meal _of _the tribe. No, she's been out fishing with me – that's how we got into our current predicament in the first place – and she's gone outside the village on plenty of occasions, but she's never been alone in the wilderness, never seen nature for what it _really is_ underneath all the flowery prose and fanciful metaphors.

Nature ain't nice.

It's survival of the fittest, out here. Eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed.

The animals here have lived that way for longer than there's even been a Southern Water Tribe. They're born with an instinctive _meanness._ You don't survive in the South Pole by being nice or soft or _weak_.

You have to be hard, ruthless, nasty. Animals know this better than anyone.

An arctic wolf won't forget its instincts just because you gave it food. I mean, _slush_, to it you ARE food.

I know this. I understand this. Even back then I understood.

But Katara didn't.

She still doesn't.

When the wolf pup bit her, when it practically mangled the same hand that had been feeding it for a week, I knew what had to be done. So did Gran-Gran and the others. Katara tried to stop me, tried to tell me that the pup was just confused, that it was just scared and frightened and _would_ get better, she's _sure of it_.

But I wasn't listening. Because I knew what had to be done.

Before the day was through, wolf blood stained the ice. And we ate well enough that night, though I still had to go out hunting the next day.

Because there just isn't much eating on a half-starved arctic wolf pup.

Katara refused to talk to me for a month, after that. She's_ still_ a little sour with me whenever she remembers little Wolfie, as she'd called the thing.

I just hope she doesn't get too attached to this kid.

People can hurt you in ways that no animal can match.

So, NO, I don't trust this kid. Not even when he suddenly asks my sister if she'll go penguin-sledding with him – and where did _that_ come from?

And, actually, now that I think about it... _why isn't he frozen?_ You don't just come out of an iceberg – or _whatever_ you wanna call that big ball of ice – all fresh as summer snow and A-okay. Of course not. That would be ridiculous.

And yet, there he is, standing right in front of us and looking completely unaffected by the cold.

Actually, how is he not freezing to death in that flimsy shirt and trousers? That can't _possibly_ be giving him any protection against the cold.

"What's going on here?" the kid says, getting up and looking around.

I scowl at him, of course.

"You tell us!" I demand, irritated with this kid's nonchalance and maybe just a little worried about what he might _do_ to me and Katara. "How'd you get in the ice?" I ask, naturally suspicious of this light-skinned, tattooed stranger, child or not. "And why aren't you frozen?" I add, jabbing him with the tip of my whale bone spear.

Not hard enough to actually poke through anything, of course, but still sharply enough to imprint on this stranger that I am armed and dangerous and _not_ to be taken lightly. Naturally, this fails _spectacularly_, and he casually bats away my spear like it's just a minor annoyance.

"I'm not sure," I hear him mutter, and then he turns around, and there's something about a giant fluffy snot monster and Katara my flying sister, but I'm not really paying attention. I can't.

Something more important is on my mind.

It's happening again.

I'm starting to shiver. I don't feel cold, but I am starting to shiver.

I know what this means. Or at least. I know what this usually leads to.

And I can't help but think _No! Not now!_ as I feel my arms and legs become sluggish and unresponsive to my orders. I tell them what to do, but they aren't listening right now.

Not to _me_, at least.

I want to swear or cry or ask the spirits _Why me, why?!_ but I can't.

I don't have control of my mouth. I don't have control of my _anything_. Even as I follow the kid – Aang, was it? – and my sister onto the back of that giant ball of fuzz and phlegm and horns almost as big as my torso – what did he call it? Appa? – I'm not _really_ the one following them.

I mean, it's my body, but I'm not the one controlling it.

I can't control myself.

_Fitting, really_, I can't help but think bitterly as I take my seat in the saddle, except that it's NOT me. Not really. _I can't control anything else. Why should my own body be any different?_

If that kid tries anything while I'm like this...

_no_

If I fail to protect Katara because I can't even trust my own body to listen...

_nonono_

If that happens...

_anything but this anything but this no nonono why now why now no not now no why why no no nonono_

I want to scream, but my mouth won't respond. I want to kill the kid now before he can threaten my baby sister, before he can use her and hurt her and kill her himself, but I can't move my arms, I can't move my legs.

_please stop no don't_

If this kid hurts my sister, and I'm unable to stop him...

_no not that anything else please anything but that_

...I can't guarantee I'll be able to keep my grip.

_if i haven't already lost it_

* * *

A/N: So, I dunno how mindscrewy this chap was, but I imagine it was plenty dark enough for y'all. And even if Aang is completely harmless, Sokka doesn't know that yet. So of COURSE he'll start freaking out when another of those "fits" sets in. :D

**Chapter added:** 9-13-13

**TTFN and R&R!**

– — ❤


	5. Fear

**As One Fey**

An _Avatar: the Last Airbender_ plotbunny

By

EvilFuzzy9

* * *

My brother can be so infuriating, sometimes. And I'm not talking about his stupid jokes or his sexist remarks, either, though those _are_ certainly annoying enough on their own. But, no. That's not what I'm talking about.

When he's talking, and saying stupid things, at least I can shoot back at him with my own remarks. At least _then_ I can turn his words against him.

But not now. No.

Sometimes you can never get my brother to _shut up_, but that's okay because at least then I know what he's thinking. When his mouth is open, Sokka wears his heart on his sleeves. He might try and act all gruff and macho, but I can still read him like a scroll.

...when his mouth is open, at least.

But then, there are those times when he doesn't talk at _all_.

He kind of unnerves me, at those times. Those times when he just sits there and shivers and seems to stare right through you. And it's at times like that when I notice how strange his eyes seem to be, how _different_.

Now, I don't mean this in terms of color – they're every bit as blue as my own, and those of the other tribesfolk – or, really, anything else that can be seen, clearly. I mean, I see it, a little, like there's some kind of _light _behind his eyes, at times, a light that doesn't illuminate anything around it, but still glows from within. It's a light that can't _really_ be seen, yet you _know_ it's there, you can _feel it_ when it lands on you. It's creepy. Unnerving.

When he gets like that, when he gets so quiet and moody and sullen, I feel like his eyes are looking right through me. It's weird, but I almost feel like he can tell what I'm thinking, like he could pluck the thoughts right out of my head, if he tried.

Silly, isn't it?

I mean, my brother is a complete and utter buffoon, yet all he has to do is sit there and say nothing and just _Look_ at you, and suddenly I realize how tall he's gotten, how strong his arms look, how bright and intelligent his eyes are. And I _know_ perfectly well what this sounds like, but I don't mean it in _that_ way.

No. There's nothing _charming_ about Sokka, when he has one of these fits, these episodes of teen angst – because that _has_ to be what it is, right? When I see how tall he's gotten, it's not with admiration. When I see how strong his arms are, it's not with affection. When I see how bright and intelligent his eyes are, it's not with trust.

There's nothing _wholesome_ or _handsome_ about Sokka, when he gets like this. I mean, it's not like he gets ugly, really, but when he goes all quiet and sullen, I can't help but feel like there's something _menacing _in the silence. Sokka seems dark, in a way, when he gets like that.

He shivers, too, at those times, and I usually poke fun at him for that, if only to try and break him out of his sour mood. It only works occasionally, but I don't really know any other way to deal with it.

My brother is just a little scary, when he gets like this.

Like he is right now, like he has been since Aang gave us a ride back to the village on his bison. He was gloomy and shivering for the entire trip, and staring at Aang so... _intensely_... that I was starting to get worried he would try and hurt him.

I mean, I know it sounds bad for me to talk about him like this, but sometimes Sokka makes me worry. Sometimes he just seems so dark and surly and... _different_. Sometimes his eyes look far older than they should, older than even Gran-Gran's, but they aren't a nice kind of old. They aren't kind eyes. They're mean, hard, _angry_.

Gran-Gran says it's just a phase, that it's just a part of growing up for Sokka, a part of becoming a man, but I notice. When she says these things, I can hear the trace of doubt in her voice.

I'm not the only one who notices how scary Sokka can be, at times, how he can seem like he's so close to violence at any given moment, whenever he starts to brood.

I know he's a good person, at heart – I mean, he's my _brother._ How could I ever think otherwise?

It's just that.

He can be scary, sometimes.

So angry. So quiet. So _strange _and _foreign _and nothing like he should be.

Nothing like _Sokka_ should be.

Because I know he has a temper. But not like this.

I've never seen Sokka so _angry_. I've never heard his voice sounding like this, sounding like his usual voice, but also in some way nothing like it – so full of anger and hate and... something else, something I can't quite place, but something that scares me so much that I can't help but worry that Sokka will actually try and do something to Aang.

"You hateful child!" I hear Sokka shout at Aang, pointing back in the direction we came from, back in the direction of the abandoned Fire Nation ship. "Look at what you have wrought, you accursed wretch!"

This kind of talk, under other circumstances, would have seemed ridiculous coming from my brother, but right now all I could think about was the _heat _in them, the _anger_.

"No, Sokka!" I shout at him, trying to distract him from Aang. I can see him clutching his club in his hand, can see the strange, undecipherable writing he carved into its side in a fit of pique. _Beater_, he calls it, and I wonder, with a weird sort of feeling of detachment from what I was seeing, if that's what the writing means.

Even as I see his mitten-covered hands grip the handle of his club tighter, I also see Aang look towards me, and I see the worry and fear and concern and _I'm SO sorry_ in his eyes, and Sokka as well turning to look at me.

He stares hard at me, his eyes seeming darker than ever, colder and also hotter than I have ever yet seen them. For a moment, for a single, horrible, fear-filled moment, I wonder if Sokka is going to hit me, if my _own brother_ is going to attack me. But then it passes, and he turns his glare back on Aang.

"Go to the others," he tells me, his voice low and harsh. He does not look at me as he talks, but I know that I'm the one he's addressing. "This does not concern you, sister."

_Sister_.

The word rings in my ears, feeling like a slap on the face. Sokka has never addressed me so coldly, so impersonally. And he has never looked so _angry_ before, either.

I'm honestly worried that he's going to try and kill Aang. This boy might be the last airbender in the entire world, but my brother would not hesitate to smash his head in or slit his throat or stab him in the gut. Not if it would mean protecting the tribe.

He thinks Aang is a threat, an enemy. I can see it in his eyes.

But I _know_ that he is _wrong_.

"No," I tell him, my voice firm. "I will not. Sokka, I won't let you hurt Aang."

He turns to face me again, and his eyes flash.

"Do you side with the enemy?!" he demands, snarling at me and gripping his club, lifting it up in the air.

But he can't scare me. I know Sokka. He's my brother. He would never hurt me. He doesn't have it in him to attack me.

And if he does...

Well, then I suppose he isn't Sokka, anymore.

"Aang is _not_ our enemy," I tell him, unafraid.

Sokka scoffs.

"No?" he says, and in that moment his voice sounds more like it should. I can hear it crack a little, and I... I think I can almost see some of that anger slip out of his eyes. "What about _that?!_" he points at the bit of smoke that's still up there in the air, what smoke from the flare that hasn't wafted away on the wind.

It looks almost like a stain left in the air, I think absentmindedly.

"Er, well, we were on the ship..." Aang mumbles sheepishly, seeming a little less frightened now. "And there was this booby trap, and well..."

"You signaled the Fire Navy!" Sokka snaps, and he still sounds angry, but it's not like it was a few minutes earlier.

This anger isn't as frightening, it isn't weighing down on us so heavily, like something tangible in the air that's pressing us slowly downward into the snow. There's something smaller about his anger, now. It seems smaller, less oppressive, less violent and rash and _potent_.

Even as Sokka declares that Aang is banished from the village, I can't help but feel a little relieved in the back of my mind.

I might never tell him as much, but I _do_ love my brother.

I love my brother, but...

I can't stand seeing him look so scary. I hate feeling like I don't even know who he is.

It makes me so sad, so worried, to see him so angry and dark and _different_.

My brother can be so infuriating, sometimes.

Because I'm not afraid of him.

I'm afraid _for_ him.

* * *

A/N: A Katara chapter, in case you somehow could not figure that out, courtesy of Babyuknowme13, who gave me the idea to do one with Katara. And that's two chapters in as many days! Even if they are fairly short, it's pretty lucky of you guys. :D

And next chapter we might actually FINALLY get to see Zuko's first appearance! Shocking, isn't it?! :O

**Chapter added:** 9-14-13

**TTFN and R&R!**

– — ❤


	6. Burn it White

**As One Fey**

An _Avatar: the Last Airbender_ plotbunny

By

EvilFuzzy9

* * *

The Fire Nation is coming.

I have to get ready. I won't let those ash-licking whoresons take anyone else away from me. Not like they took Mom.

I won't let them take anyone else.

Ever again.

I can't. I have to fight, but I cannot. My anger flares hot in my breast, yet this anger be not of mine own will. It is the will of the Other which fuels this fire, this hot, raging inferno which threatens almost to consume me alive, flesh and bone and blood, sinew, all. Such fire there is in his belly, but the Other refuses to harness it, to draw upon its strength.

How foolish.

How incomparably, incomprehensibly foolish. It is beyond my ken, how any could have such power brimming up within them, yet so unfailingly deny it time and again.

It is beyond understanding.

I do not understand.

I just don't get it.

Why does the Fire Nation have to come here, anyways? Why do they attack us, and burn our huts, and kill our family and friends? Why have they done all of that?

And why are they planning to do it again?

It's been ten years since the last attack. Ten years since mom died. Ten years since the men left for war.

It's been so long.

Last time, I was just a boy. I could not fight. I couldn't protect mom. I couldn't help the men.

I haven't gone iceberg dodging yet. I'm not a man yet. Not by the traditions of our people. But I'm not a boy, anymore, either.

I can fight. Last time I couldn't. Last time I was helpless. But not anymore.

I might not be strong, but I can still fight. I can lift up this club, I can throw this boomerang. I can swing this machete, I can wield this spear. I'm not good at it, I know, I've only been able to learn so much without older warriors to train me, but I can do enough. I can make this work._  
_

I _have_ to make this work.

I have to.

And I shall.

Music wells up, now, song from the core of my being. No merry tune, is it, no gay celebration. It is grim, warlike, fierce, even as the one who sings it. This tongue, these lips, feel ill-suited to song, but still I sing nonetheless, if only to myself, if only as a whisper scarce louder than unvoiced breath.

"_My heart, I feel grow swiftly bolder,_

_Even as the air chills colder._

_My spear, its tip is white and sharp,_

_My song no pluck of gilded harp._

_To war I charge and run and leap;_

_The fruits of blood my club shall reap._

_To war! to war! our tribe, to war!_

_To death and blood and icy gore!_

_Boomerang, fly so swift and sure,_

_Machete, cold-white as snow so pure,_

_To war, to war! To kill and sack!_

_The ocean groans; the ice doth crack!_

_To war I go; to war we go!_

_To slay the wicked, hated foe!_

_To war! To war!_

_I go! We go!_"

And even as the final line leaves my lips, I hear the mighty grinding and gnashing of iron and steel against snow and ice. I emerge from the hut, the "_igloo_" as they call it, to see a great ship, an armored boat of daunting size. Its prow, like a great, black-gray knife, cuts a cracking, shuddering furrow through the icy shore, the shore which is only ice, no land beneath.

How strange, this place, and the ways of its people.

But the ship comes at last to a stop, casting down a meager, paltry "tower" shaped of snow before finally halting in its advance.

The exultation of coming violence sings loud in my veins, the savage blood of this hardy people roaring in my ears as the gangplank drops. I see the figures emerge, armored and clad in red and black, with white death's-head faceplates.

_Firebenders, _speaks a voice in the back of my mind. _Like me, yet unlike._

I don't listen to this, though.

I'm nothing like those fucking ash-makers. I'm Water Tribe, through and through. I'll beat their heads in and scare them off, just like dad and the other men used to do.

_But there were many men to fight_, that blizzard blasted voice insists. _And many died, besides_.

"There were more firebenders then, too," I mutter to myself. No one hears, though. The villagers are behind me, several feet behind, but still there.

I'd have preferred if they were safe in their igloos, but I understand how powerful curiosity can be.

If I had stayed at the igloo back then.

_You would have been sent out with your sister_, says the voice again. I don't even know what the voice is. My common sense, maybe? I don't know. _Or else you would have died with your mother_.

I growl.

I hate the Fire Nation.

I really do.

And I'll prove it, too.

I run ahead, run up the gangplank, swinging my club around my head with a terrifying Water Tribe war cry. I'm charging at the prick in the center, the one with the ugly scar over one eye, the one who looks like he _must_ be the leader.

He's dressed nicer than the others.

I narrow my eyes as I get even closer. He sees me of course, sees me coming, but he isn't reacting, or at least not as far as I can tell.

Does he think I'm not even a threat?

Bastard.

I'll show him.

Right as I'm almost on top of him, though, I see him start to shift his weight. He moves his body, a little—

I see his leg coming up—

I can already feel it impacting in my gut—

The wind is knocked out of my lungs—

But my arm, my club—

Even as I feel my body being pushed aside by the force of the blow—

It swings down, and connects, with a sickening—

_** CRUNCH**_

The prick screams in pain, but I'm not able to laugh at him at the moment. My lungs are kinda empty, and I'm falling down besides.

WHUMPH

I land in a snowbank.

Right on top of a chunk of ice.

_Ow_.

Okay.

That was a pretty good job, Sokka. But you can do better.

...as soon as you regain feeling in your lower body.

I do recover quickly enough, though. I'm sore, and cold, and miserable all over, but I'm able to move.

I can still fight.

And I _shall_ fight.

I spring to my feet. Sore and stiff are my limbs from the pervasive chill of this icy pit, but I do not feel it. The fire burns hot in me, now. My wrath is hot. My anger, my rage.

I spin around, face the enemy, the foe, the one who has shamed me so.

"Hear me now, thou ash-maker scum!" I cry, and my words are harsh and biting. "I am Sokka, son of Hakoda, who rules this Tribe as Chief! These lands be the lands of our people, of our ancestors past, and descendants future!" I declare boldly, my eyes burning bright, I am sure. "No hateful scion of the Nation of Fire shall I suffer to come here, not though they should come even with offerings of provender and drink and material wealth!"

The young one, the one who appears to be leading the others, turns to face me. There is derision in his eyes, scorn plain upon his face.

It rankles me.

"Where is the Avatar, then?" he demands of me. "If you want us to leave, then give him to us. I know you're hiding him," he says, voice hard, eyes narrowed. "But if you turn him over to us now, then I will forget your actions, and ensure that you people are left to your own devices."

His words ring in my ears, and my mind reels.

"_Avatar?_" I say, recalling the word as something from old campfire tales told by Grandmother. "You believe we keep from you some icon of myth?"

I laugh.

"Fool!" cry I. "Pitiable fool! You pursue old spirit tales and campfire stories! Avatar? There is no such thing!"

The young man snarls, face red, eyes glaring.

"Don't patronize me, peasant!" he roars, and fire erupts from his fist, a billowing flame, a jet of consuming dragon's breath.

Without thought, my own hands move forward. They swing up, a fluid, instinctive motion, and I catch the flames between my palms. I hold fire in my hands, and it becomes _mine_.

I do not notice, however.

It is hot.

Not the fire I hold, but the fire within me. It leaps and swells and rages now out of control. My anger has achieved a terrible height at this fool's words. Greater souls than he have been cast down in disgrace for lesser slights against my person.

_Peasant?_

That despicable fool.

The wrath of Fëanor is a most terrible thing.

I am _no_ peasant.

Sokka I am not. Chief's son I am not.

_Man_ I am not.

Quendi. Eldar. Noldor.

Prince.

Nay, _High King_.

Peasant?

What a fool he is. What a loathsome, abhorrent, _inflammable_ fool.

He shall burn.

Red and orange and yellow blossom and swell in my hands. They become blue, many shades of burning azure, and still they burgeon and flourish. White now, they are, a blinding, dazzling radiance as bright as sun and moon together, as white as silver, as yellow as gold.

They are great and hot beyond control. The flames rage between my fingers even as I turn them upon this damnable fool, blackening and charring and cracking the skin of this mortal vessel. Cloth catches aflame, upon my body, but I care not.

The fire burns me, sears my skin, chars my flesh, but this is only a tithe of what it shall do to the fool, and to his ship.

I roar out my defiance, and thrust forth my hands. Fire consumes me, clothes burned to ash, and all becomes white before me.

Flame envelops all I behold.

The world is burning.

Then the sun goes black.

Darkness takes me.

* * *

A/N: WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA?! ANOTHER CHAPTER IN A SINGLE DAY?!

Yes. Yes, there is.

Because, clearly, I am fucking insane. Which would probably explain this trip of a chapter, really. If you can follow what's going on in it, then you probably deserve a bloody gold medal, aye?

Also, CLIFFHANGER WOOOOOO!

And I FINALLY got Zuko's first appearance out of the way. Is it his _last_ appearance, too?

...no, probably not.

SUSPENSE DESU

**Chapter added: **9-14-13

**TTFN and R&R!**

– — ❤


	7. The Awakening

**As One Fey**

An _Avatar: the Last Airbender_ plotbunny

By

EvilFuzzy9

* * *

The first thing I'm aware of is _pain_.

It's everywhere. I hurt in places I didn't even know I HAD. It's unimaginable, how bad the pain is. I can hardly even think. Every time I try, another stab of agony will jab into my sides, or my back, or my front, and I lose my focus.

It just hurts so bad. The pain is almost unbearable.

I can't see. I don't know if it's because my eyes are closed, it's too dark, or I've simply gone blind. But whatever the case, everything is dark and black and unseeable.

...is that a word? Unseeable? It seems like it should be, but it also sounds just a little off...

Well, whatever. The point is that I don't see anything. I hurt everywhere, I can't see, and I definitely don't have the strength to move.

Is this death? The last thing I can remember is fire, fire _everywhere_. Did I burn to death? Because I certainly _feel_ like I did.

_Ow._

Sheesh. I've gotta say: if this is death, then I am NOT impressed. It's so_ boring_. The only thing I'm aware of is pain and darkness.

I don't even have anything to do, except try to make out those weird voices in the distance.

_"...kka...not well...be..."_

_"...is burns...bad...needs med..."_

_"...dying...slow...an help..."_

The words are really faint and kinda garbled, like I'm just barely hearing them over the noise of a blizzard, or else maybe from really far away. I can't really make sense of what they're saying, or at least not that I want to think about. Because it almost sounds like they're talking about me.

It doesn't sound good. I can't seem to put names to the voices, but they feel familiar. Like I know who they belong to, but I just can't remember the names.

It's frustrating, especially on top of all this pain. I can't even think. It just hurts too... ... ...

"_...wa...up..._"

Hm?

"_...ake...p..._"

This voice... It sounds familiar.

Very familiar.

"_...wake..._"

This person... I know this voice. I know whose voice this is... but the name... it's not there...

"_...up..._"

So familiar... so warm... I can almost name it...

"_Wake up, please!_"

My eyes snap open.

"Katara...?" I wheeze, and the sound of my own voice is so strange to my ears that I probably would have jumped a foot into the air out of surprise, if not for how much I still hurt.

It still hurts. I can hardly move my body, it hurts so bad.

But.

My sister.

I see her eyes all wide and puffy, and her cheeks wet. I see the tears glimmering in the corners of her warm blue pools, and I see the smile, the almost manic expression on her face as she stares down at me, all sniffling and weepy.

"Sokka? You're awake?" This voice isn't Katara's. It's a boy's voice, the pitch of a boy younger than me, but also older than the other boys in the Tribe...

It takes me a moment to remember where I've heard this voice before. And then another moment to turn my head (my neck protesting the whole way) and look at this speaker.

"I thought I banished you," I say to Aang, who I can see now is sitting in what must be some kind of meditation pose in the corner of the igloo. It hurts to talk, and my throat and lips and mouth feel really dry and scratchy, but I still manage to get the words out. I mean the statement as an honest expression of befuddlement, because I'm still pretty out of it and everything's a bit hazy, but my voice is hoarse and weak, so I guess they must have taken it as an attempt at wry sarcasm, because Aang gives me strange sort of half-smile and Katara shakes her head, muttering something inaudible under her breath as she wipes a tear away from her eyes.

"Never scare me like that again, Sokka..." I hear Katara whisper, and while I'm still trying to puzzle out precisely what happened—I can remember being really angry, and feeling only half in control of my body, but other than that it's a big fuzzy blank—I can't help but want to give her a smile and tell her that I won't.

"We almost lost you," Aang adds with a remarkable degree of grim sobriety, considering what I can recall from my limited experiences with the kid. But apart from his tone, it's the words that unnerve me the most.

"Um, mind filling me in?" I ask wryly, and while my voice is still really hoarse, it's not hurting quite as much to talk, now. Or maybe I'm just getting used to the pain. "I'm a little fuzzy on the details."

For some reason, Aang frowns a little a this, and Katara looks like she was either sad or... _guilty_.

"You... don't remember...?" my sister asks me, and I get the distinct feeling that I am not going to like this. "Sokka... you were _firebending_..."

My heart stops when I hear those words from her mouth, and all I can think is: _oh, NO!__  
_

This is the absolute last thing I would ever want to hear her say. For as long as I can remember, my firebending has been a guilty secret, something I hid as much as possible. Even before that last Fire Nation raid, only a couple of people knew I could firebend. My dad knew about it, and Gran-Gran and Bato knew, too. But other than that, the news was never really passed around.

There just hadn't been a chance. It happened so fast. They'd wanted to help me train in secret, help me learn how to control my bending before letting the Tribe know, but then everything kind of blew up in our faces.

The Fire Nation attacked. Not even a week after I learned I was a firebender, I got to see firsthand what kind of people firebenders were.

What kinds of things they _did_.

I was never able to tell Katara. Not after seeing what happened to Mom. The thought that I could be anything like the bastards who tore our family apart...

Mom's death affected Katara. I mean _seriously_ affected her. It tore her up inside, wounded her on a really deep level. I couldn't _possibly_ tell her that _I_ was a firebender! Not after seeing what they did to our mother.

But a fat lot of good that did me. Katara _saw_ me firebending. She knows I'm a firebender, that I'm the same as the people who killed our mom.

I can't even look at her. I feel like garbage.

"I'm_ sorry_..." I tell Katara with a raspy voice, looking away from her.

She doesn't take that well.

"You SHOULD be!" she yells at me, grabbing my chin and forcibly turning my head to face her. "You should have _told me_, Sokka! I would have helped you! I could have helped you learn how to control it, instead of... whatever it is you thought you were doing out there, you _ass!_ You almost _died!_"

At that word, Katara then jumps to her feet with a terrifying glare in my direction, and she starts pacing back and forth across the igloo.

"If it wasn't for Aang..." she mutters darkly. "You were burned all over your body... a miracle you've recovered at _all_... you and your stupid pride..." She huffs angrily. "You're just lucky Aang was able to find those waterbending scrolls at his home... Without those healing techniques, or those herbs he gathered..."

Her lips are pursed into a thin line, and it takes me a moment to realize the importance of what she just said.

"Burned?" I croak out. "_All over my body?_"

Katara glares at me, but I can see tears trickling down her cheeks.

Not good. I think I might have seriously screwed up, this time.

"Yes!" she snaps. "You tried to take on all of those firebenders by yourself, and then you lost control! You could have burned yourself alive! And you _would have_, if Aang hadn't gotten here when he did..."

Katara sighs, now, and I can't help noticing that she looks awfully tired.

"Sokka... I don't know. I just..." She shakes her head. "...you looked so powerful, at that moment, but... you also looked so_ frail_. You almost sank that ship with your attack, and if it wasn't for that old man jumping into the fight, you might have killed their leader, too. And yet..."

"You couldn't control it." This was Aang. He looks strangely aged and melancholic, now, so different from the vibrant, playful fool of a boy I first met. "You let anger cloud your judgement, and you drew on a power bigger than yourself. You lost yourself in it, and it nearly destroyed you."

I frown at this, and in spite of myself I irritably mutter, "What do _you_ know?"

Aang gives me a sad, sympathetic smile.

"I almost made the same mistake, when I saw what was happening..." he says, and his gaze seems distant. "I almost lost control of myself, too... And again, when I went back to my home, looking for medicine to help you..." He sighs, and gives me a Look with eyes that look far, far too old to belong to a boy. "It was my fault. All of this."

I frown, and I shake my head. Under other circumstances, I might've been glad to hear this kid admitting his culpability in what went down, but... I get a feeling he isn't just talking about this attack.

An airbender frozen inside an iceberg for who knows how long. No human could survive that. The cold would destroy the flesh, stop the heart and freeze the blood...

I shake my head again. This isn't the time to think about it.

"Don't blame yourself," I tell the kid. "The Fire Nation would have attacked us sooner or later, anyways... It's not like our Tribe is really hidden, or anything."

But Aang shakes his head, and he says, "No, not just that. I mean _everything_. The attack, the raids before that, all of it..." He sighs. "This war never should have happened... I should have been there to stop it."

And immediately some things are starting to make a lot more sense. It all falls into place with that last statement.

"You're the Avatar," I say, putting two and two together to get the square root of sixteen.

It makes sense. Almost too much sense. What that scarred-eye firebender prick said, a lot of Aang's own strange remarks, the fact that he was able to survive at least a hundred years in an iceberg.

Aang winces.

"Yeah," he says guiltily. "I am."

* * *

A/N: ESCHATONIAN ESCHUTEON.

...I dunno, I just really like the sound-slash-meaning of it. XP

Also, HOLY HELL, A WHOLE MONTH SINCE I LAST UPDATED THIS, WTF D:

SO SORRY, Y'ALL

And in other news, my birthday is on the twenty-ninth! :D

**Chapter added: **9-10-13

**TTFN and R&R!**

– — ❤


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